


Decay

by Josweetz7



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 07:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14806701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josweetz7/pseuds/Josweetz7
Summary: Every Crowe lives at the bottom of the social ladder. She's come to accept her lot in life. After all, when everything you touch withers into corpses, it's only natural for people to reject you. But when a boy from the top of the caste system falls into her lap, looking for a way back home, she has a decision to make. A decision that hangs her life and all of Sacchar in the balance.





	1. Prologue - Winter

We get this feeling, at the beginning of winter, that things can only get colder.

 

The big, brass bell sang over the green hills rolling outside the little schoolhouse, tucked away from the smog of the city and the factories only a little down the lane. It was here that the children of the slums, the ones that could afford to go without worrying about losing the roof over their head, would take solace from the noise and the stench of impoverished life. The Heiress teachers there would pack their heads full of top tier propaganda and then send them out into the yard to play and eat whatever rotted lunch they had. Seven children in all. A virus had swept through Anavien only a few weeks ago and took the other five children with it, and already, everything was business as usual. Nobody would remember a few missing kids from Grimes County, not even the few friends they may have once had. Kids like them… kids like us disappeared, dead or otherwise, all the time.  
I sat under the only source of shade in the schoolyard, a wrangled old willow tree hanging over the creek separating the school from the rest of the city. Nobody ever bothered me here. Of course, nobody tended to bother me in general. My gaze traveled from the ring of seven survivors playing Pop, Goes the Weasel under the watchful eyes of the teachers to my gloved hands, folded in my lap. It had to be eighty five degrees out. The factory smoke did little to cool the sweltering Spring day, and yet, here I was, in the shade, covered head to toe in layers, black mittens hiding my dirty fingers and a bright red scarf - my favorite scarf - wrapped around my face. The others were in old dresses and t-shirts, good hot weather clothes, their sunburns peeling off their shoulders and noses. But I had to dress like this. The adults all said so. It was safer, they said.  
It was good in the winter. I blended in. But even though I get colder than other kids, not even someone like me could take this heat for long.  
I wiggle my fingers inside the hot, black felt enveloping them. I was alone over here, right? Just me and the grass, and this big willow tree. Maybe I could just slip them off for a moment.  
I tilt my pasty face up, the breeze brushing black, greasy strands of hair out of my eyes, checking to make sure nobody was looking before popping the left one off with my right hand. I was instantly just a bit cooler. It felt so nice. I stretched out my grubby digits in front of my face, as it had been the first time I had seen them in about a week. Small, dainty, unmarked. The hands of a child who had never put them to work, and yet, they already had so much blood on them - at least, that’s what they told me. Could one really be held accountable for their parents’ death when they were only a newborn?  
I was a smart kid, even if everyone insisted I was useless.  
Smart enough to know how sad it was when a seven year old thought the kids whisked away by disease were luckier than her.  
I was so distracted by my hand that I didn’t even realize when the other kids and the teachers were yelling at me, ordering me to cover it back up. In my surprise and my panic, I lost my grip on the mitten and it was whisked out of my hand by the wind. Struggling to catch it, I scrambled to my feet and raced after it, only to be tripped by one of the willow’s gnarled roots poking up out of the ground, falling flat on my stomach, my left hand outstretched to lessen the impact.  
My eyes were closed, and I was too busy crying about the stinging in my scraped palm to notice… the screams. The shrieks of the other children, all stumbling in their attempt to escape at the sight of the grass, once lush and green, instantly withering away in a perfect foot and a half diameter circle around my hand and face, where the scarf had slipped down to reveal my cheek.  
“No, wait,” I cried out when I realized, lifting my face off the ground, the tears streaking down my grimy cheeks, “Please don’t run! Please, I’m sorry! It’s okay!” I rose to my feet, watching the last of the children trickle into the safety of the schoolhouse, ushered inside by a sour-faced Heiress teacher, who cast me one last hate-filled look before following, slamming the door behind her.  
“It’s okay!” I cried louder, hoping to be heard through the windows and the flimsy wooden door as I approached, desperately, “I won’t hurt you! I promise! I-I’m sorry!”  
They weren’t going to listen. They weren’t going to let me in.  
I sank to my knees outside the door, sobbing.  
“Please…” I begged, softly, through my weeping, “Please. I’m… I’m sorry…”

 

For some, the flowers all wilt when they wind up on their path. For some, the insects quiet and halt their hum. For some, the snow won’t thaw for years. For some, Spring won’t ever come.  
And while the rest will live out their life, enjoying sun in their day, some will exist in shadows, surrounded by death and Decay.


	2. Chapter 1 - Another Sunny Day in Anavien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every spends five Obe, and gets way more than she bargained for.

### Chapter 1

###  Every morning, I wake up disappointed. I wake up disappointed, because I woke up. It’s a vicious cycle, really. Every day, at precisely four A.M., the mechanical buzzing of my alarm prompts me to flick open my eyes and stare up at the blank white ceiling above my bed, and I think to myself, Why did I have to survive another night? Depressing, isn’t it? I’ve done this every day, every morning, for the past fourteen years. That’s like… seventy-five percent of my life, or something. I guess what I’m trying to say is… it sucks. It really, really sucks. With a sigh of resignation at the fact I was still - for some ungodly reason - alive, I roll off the stiff mattress and onto my feet, slapping my alarm off and walking into one of the only three small rooms I call my apartment. Everything was white or grey here. White carpeting, white sheets, white plastic furniture. Grey walls to mimic my eyes and the thoughts and feelings that hid behind them. I crossed into the tiny (white) bathroom and stepped into the shower stall to scrub my skin with lukewarm water and the cheapest bar of soap money could buy. After about four minutes, I exited to brush my teeth and fuss with my lifeless black hair. As usual, nothing could be done to bring any shine or body into the strands, and for some reason, no matter how much I washed it, it never quite got clean. Perhaps the smoke from the factories a few streets over was just baked directly into my scalp at this point. Whatever the case, I gave up and disappeared into the kitchen, where I had my favorite breakfast: burnt toast and butter, with a glass of water. Exciting, right? Can’t you just taste it? Yes, this is how I started every day. A disappointing mattress, a disappointing shower, a disappointing glance in the mirror, and a disappointing meal. But, hey, at least I had all of those things now. There was a time when I had none of it, and to be honest, those memories are the only things keeping me from throwing in the towel altogether. Because hey, if I started from nothing, and now I have enough to live, one day, when I’m old, I might even be able to afford hot water. What a luxury. Anyway. The sun was starting to flicker through the dusty white blinds, and I knew I’d better get going. Those cardboard boxes weren’t going to pack themselves, and if they did, it would be bad news for me. Leaving my dirty dishes on the table, I rushed to get dressed, throwing on a threadbare grey button down and some old black slacks and shoes. It wasn’t even light out yet, and I could already feel the summer’s heat penetrating through the thin walls of my apartment. Nevertheless, I followed protocol. Black overcoat. Black gloves. Red scarf tied around my nose and mouth. They said all this was for public safety, but I’m pretty sure it was just so me and my kind could easily be recognized in a crowd. Recognized, and abused. Not that I care anymore. I’m used to it, I suppose. When I was a child, the smallest things would set me crying. Being an adult, however, was about learning to overcome those weaknesses. And by that, I mean just taking it when people call you a monster or a curse. You have to let it roll off your back. Now that I officially looked like the poster child for heat exhaustion, I made my way out of the apartment, locking the door behind me with a swipe of my key card, and heading down four flights of iron steps to the front door. Another swipe of my card, and I was outside. The sky was still mostly dark, speckled with the only three stars I could ever make out through the smog over the city, but through the thin spaces between the tall brownstones, I could see the sunrise peeking through and illuminating a beautiful city gone sour. My building was one of the many humanitarian projects slapped around the city; tall, skinny, and out-of place with its heavy metal doors. They were eyesores, but what could you expect from organizations that didn’t know nor cared about the wellbeing of this city? All the other buildings at least looked like they may have once been miracles of craftsmanship, with their solid oak doors and intricate carvings. I suppose I should explain these buildings. A couple years ago, these bland, monstrously tall and disproportionately thin buildings started popping up anywhere there was free space here in Anavien. There was at least one in every county. The construction workers told the residents that they were gifts from Heiress, the capital city, built to give people here - specifically my people - a chance at a better life. Along with an act passed that required local businesses to hire us, cheap rent and cheap buildings made living possible. Not necessarily living comfortably, but living. Each tower had about 30 floors with one tiny apartment on each floor, and each door was locked with a different key card. This was the bigwigs’ not-so-subtle way of reminding us that while they may house us, they do not trust us. We would live alone. We would be kept separately, like dogs at the pound. We would not communicate, and we would not be given any room to grow. Despite the many rooms, each tower was sparsely populated. Mine, for instance, held only four occupants. There… weren’t that many of us. Anyway, that’s the story behind these prisons in disguise. Just a simple case of false hospitality from the richie-riches that imposed the laws that held us back in the first place. Regardless, the Equal Hire Act had resulted in me getting my first proper job, so I suppose I should thank them for that. Even if they did make me work in the basement. I mean, money’s money, right? And so, I made my way through the narrow, dirty streets of Anavien, passing vagabonds sleeping on the sidewalks and plywood huts with slanted tin roofs tucked away in the alleys. When I reached my workplace, I made my way around back to the hidden stairwell that only two people - me and another employee like me - held the key to. Down I went, and I turned on the measly little fan they supplied me with and set to work. I packaged notebook after notebook. Stack it in the box, two columns of 20, close it up, tape it down, and put it on the cart. Again. Stack it in the box. Two columns of 20. Close it up. Tape it down. Put it on the cart. Repeat. All day, I do this. I pack the boxes, I put them on the cart. When the cart is full, I push it into the elevator. The button is four feet away, and the moment it’s pressed, the grates snap closed and someone on the floor above calls the elevator up. This is to ensure that I can’t enter it and join the ride. So, without sunlight, without air conditioning, and without any human contact, I return to my work. Stack. Columns. Close. Tape. Cart. Repeat. Then it’s lunch. A peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of water. Back to work. The 10 hour shift passes, and I finally clock out. My shoulders and back ache, but not any more than usual. When I leave the basement, I take my usual route home, trying to hide in the shade of the alleys, hoping to go unnoticed. The people who do see me glare. A child playing in the muddy puddles by the gutters tries to run over to invite me into her game. I offered her a smile, but before I could greet her, a shriek of horror came from the sidewalk, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman in an old sundress motioning wildly for the child to return to her. “Beatrice! If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times! We don’t associate with her kind! Get back here!” Beatrice appeared startled, but scurried back to her mother, casting me a sullen, apologetic glance as the woman ushered her off down the road. I sighed, shook a strand of hair out of my eyes, and finished the trek home, dodging sneers, rude gestures, and even some thrown garbage. Another beautiful, sunny day in Anavien. \----- The next day came all too soon. I went through my morning routine, I worked through my shift, and then, right when it seemed to be just another day, I saw something new on my route home. It was a colorful booth, similar in shape to the little mercantile shops that occasionally popped up around Anavien, but much more… glittery? I mean, like, way too much glitter. It was eye-catching and pretty, I guess, but uh… kitschy, is the word I think I’m looking for. Nobody was around, so I was in no danger of being mocked, and the amount of sparkle intrigued me. After all, this drab old town could use a bit more color. I approached the stand and looked up to read the sign above. Painted in hot pink, swooping letters (and doused with even more glitter) were the words “MacCormack and Co. Fortune-telling!” “Fortune-telling, hm?” I muttered, amused. I tried to peer around the counter, but there didn’t seem to be anyone manning the booth. However, as I leaned forward into the window, a mass of curly red fur bounced out from behind the counter. I jumped back with a yelp. First observation? Not fur. It was a mane of ginger hair, held out of the individual’s freckly face with two glittery hairclips. Second observation? I’ve never seen a bigger smile in my life. “Hi there!” She greeted me. Her voice was high-pitched and full of life. I waited for her to notice my attire. I waited for her friendly grin to fade. But it didn’t happen. I guess I must have been quiet for a long time, because she cocked her head to the side and said, “Hey, you mute or something?” “Um…” I blinked in confusion, “I-” “Oh, good, you’re not!” She said, cutting me off, sounding relieved, “I mean, not that being mute is a bad thing or something, cause like, it’s just neutral, you know? But this is easier. I uh, don’t know sign language! Anyway, welcome to MacCormack and Company Fortune-telling! It’s not just me, I uh, have a business partner, he’s just out right now, trying to get us some dinner. So, what can I do ya for?” I looked around to ensure that I was actually the one she was addressing with this cheery tone. “Uh… I don’t know… I guess… you could tell my fortune? I mean, that’s what you do, right…?” I said, awkwardly. It wasn’t normal for me to be taken so off guard like this. Then again, it wasn’t normal for someone with a strange affinity for glitter to be telling fortunes out of a back alley within the dingy city boundaries of Anavien. “Of course! I just need your name and five Obe,” she replied. I wondered if she was a hack. She seemed too upbeat for a Blind. I’d met some Blinds, and they were all so sullen and solemn, not to mention, sleep-deprived. Hard to get good rest when you wake up all the time at 3 A.M. after a nightmare about an acquaintance’s untimely death or the end of the world. Plus, I don’t think gingers can be Blinds. Just… doesn’t seem like they go together. “Every Crowe,” I told her, pulling out my wallet and putting down a five Obe note. This was a bit of a splurge, but it was nice to hold a conversation with someone for once, someone who wasn’t trying to ruin my day. “Every, huh? Nice name! I’m Wellesley, by the way,” Wellesley says, taking the note and putting it in something under the counter that, from this angle, I couldn’t see, “Okay! Now, I just need to hold your hands. Give’em here.” I stared at her. She stared back, still smiling. “Is…” I started, staring down at her long fingered and freckled hands, callused from what looked like years of hard work, “Is this a joke?” She blinked at me, then her eyes traveled down and saw my hands, shrouded in the black gloves. I could see understanding dawning in her gaze. A pinkish hue found her cheeks and ears, but she took a breath and met my eyes again. “No, it’s not a joke. Come on! You’re wearing gloves,” she says, confidently, “I’m not afraid.” I’m not afraid?! Was this chick mad or something?!! I mirrored her and took a deep, shuddering breath, sucking in and holding oxygen in my chest with anticipation, then slowly slipped my hands into hers. We both waited for something to happen. One second, two seconds, five seconds… but… there was nothing. We both seemed to relax at the same time - I could see it in her eyes, even if she tried to hide her fear - grateful for the layer of cloth that separated my skin from hers. “Okay,” Wellesley said, her voice suddenly soft but still retaining that friendly nature, “Let’s do this.” She closed her eyes and everything went silent. I’d seen Blinds do this before. They focused on the individual and they willed for the future to come to them. I gave her absolute peace and quiet to work. However, a few minutes passed, and there was only that quiet. Wellesley didn’t open her eyes, and she didn’t say anything. If she saw something, she wasn’t telling. I was getting impatient. Four minutes went by, then six. At nine, her eyes inched open and I straightened, excited, but she just said, “Huh. Nothing.” I swallowed, then whispered, “What do you mean?” “I mean… nothing is coming to me.” So she is a hack, I thought, Either that, or I have no future. Both are equally plausible. I slipped my mitts out of her grip, “Oh. Okay, well, um… thanks for tryi-” “Ah-” Wellesley said suddenly, clasping her head and squeezing her eyes shut in pain. But- the gloves! “Oh… oh no… I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t-” but I was cut off again when her eyes shot open. The olive green that they once were was replaced with a vibrant purple that almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the fading sun. She was breathing heavily and her once smiley face was replaced with a severe look of concentration. “Every Crowe,” she spoke, her voice deflated, “Your life is about to be interrupted. Do not get comfortable. An individual will enter the scene, and you will see it as random. But each step is choreographed, Every. Each word is scripted. He will require your assistance. If you turn him away, you may very well end this world’s future. If you give him your aid, you may very well end your own. Go to new places, go to new heights. FInd Sacchar’s traitor and lock her in your sights. She will try to turn you, and you will have to fight. The friends you make will save you, or otherwise darken your light.” My mouth hung open, my eyes were wide, and I was very, very shaken. Wellesley stared me down with those glowing violet irises before she appeared to lose balance. When she caught herself on the edge of the counter, holding her head and appearing dizzy, she slowly looked up at me, her eyes warm green once more, yet no more cheer or pep in her expression. “I’ve… never had a vision that…” She swallowed, taking in my visage of blatant fear and confusion, “...that... powerful.” I was speechless. Wellesley seemed like that type of person who couldn’t stand silences, and she quickly said, forcing a laugh, “I, uh, guess the gloves delayed the link or something. Um… a-anyway… you should probably be on the lookout for-” I stepped back, and her voice fell away. I had no clue if she was still talking, because I’d turned and started to sprint home. My heart was pounding, my head was buzzing, and all I could think of, all I could hear, over and over, was those lines. If you turn him away, you may very well end this world’s future. If you give him your aid, you may very well end yours. If this prophecy came true, I’d have the weight of the world as we know it on my shoulders, and a decision to save either myself or the entire population of Sacchar. Worst. Impulse buy. Ever.


End file.
